Page 80 of West End Earl
“There. You’ll do nicely.” He handed her the pot of rouge. “If I may be so bold, miss? His lordship is a good man. But a bit of groveling wouldn’t be amiss, I think.” With that, he left for the guest room where Polly would have directed him to put Cal’s things.
Phee smiled at the now-empty doorway, then tucked the rouge pot into its drawer. The mirror reflected an image that had her raising her chin and smoothing a hand over the front of her gown. Kingston seemed to think Cal had come here to reconcile. If Cal was still engaged to be married, surely his valet would have said as much.
Downstairs, Phee paused outside the parlor. The low rumble of Cal’s and Emma’s voices reached through the closed door. Goose bumps rose on her skin at the sound of him. Even though she couldn’t make out the words, he refreshed a part of her that had withered in his absence, like a flower without rain or sun.
She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. Damned red hair meant every emotion showed on her complexion, in blushes and blotchy skin. She might as well share her feelings on a sign around her neck. Fear. Anxiety. Anger. Desire.
Lordy, the desire surprised her. The way it unfurled within Phee at the sound of his voice, like a lazy cat stretching in a windowsill sunbeam. It would take every ounce of her self-control to not throw herself into his arms the minute he apologized.
Please, God, let him apologize.
“Let the groveling commence,” she murmured.
***
Since Cal had rolled through Olread Cove and found the correct house, ghastly nerves about seeing Phee again had tied him in knots, along with an undeniable desperation to finally be in the same room with her.
Standing in the parlor of the snug cottage was surreal, but he still hadn’t seen Phee. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought he heard her voice from somewhere in the house. A few seconds later, Emma entered the parlor and walked right into his arms.
“You came. I’m so glad,” she said.
The hug restored a piece of his calm. Cal rested his cheek on the top of her head. “How’s little Mortimer Hildegard?”
Emma stepped away, rolling her eyes. “He wants pie. A lot of pie.” Her expression turned serious as she studied him. Not as a sister but as an adult and equal. It hit him all at once that his baby sister was growing up. “You’ll need to beg her, you know. She’s alive, despite what you may have read in theTimes. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.”
He smiled, but it felt like a twisted thing on his face instead of an expression of joy. “Don’t misunderstand. I love seeing you happy and healthy. But yes, I’m here for Phee.”
And then in she walked, so utterly lovely that she stole all the air left in his lungs.
“See, brother mine? I told you—alive and well,” Emma said.
“Phee.” He breathed her name like a prayer. The way he used to say it in bed. Intimate, and with a touch of reverence. As if there could be any other way to speak to her after weeks without the warmth from her flame-red hair and joyful laughter.
By God, she made his knees weak. The gown she wore exposed delicious skin, showcasing elegant arms and the curving lines of delicate collarbones. Phee told him once in bed that she liked them, and the bones had fascinated him ever since. He wanted to simultaneously worship her and do filthy, earthy, sexual things with her until neither of them possessed any doubt who he belonged to.
The features he’d traced over and over in his mind were composed and distant, while the mere sight of Phee threatened to undo him.
“Hello, Cal. We weren’t expecting you. Don’t you have a wedding to plan? Or is your role to simply do what they say?” The words cut, but he was glad for it. Mad meant she cared. He could handle anger and hurt and anything else Phee threw at him—as long as it wasn’t apathy.
“I deserve that.” Clearing his throat, he fidgeted with the brim of his hat so he wouldn’t reach for her. “I’m not marrying Violet Cuthbert.” The carefully prepared speech he’d memorized over the days of travel disintegrated in his brain as he stared at her. “You look amazing, Phee. Beautiful as ever.”
“And I look like an egg. Spherical and wobbly,” Emma said beside him. He glanced her way to see her rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “No, Brother. Don’t attempt to compliment me. I’ll leave you two to catch up.” She winked at Cal, then closed the door behind her.
Silence fell in the snug parlor.
Phee wrapped her arms around herself and gave him a wide berth, stopping in front of the window. Beyond her shoulder, Cal couldn’t see anything worth watching. The packed-dirt lane in front of the house was empty except for a dusty traveling carriage rattling down the street slowly, taking its time over the rutted roadway. Olread Cove was a peaceful village.
She turned to face him. “You look like hell.”
He rubbed a palm over the short beard Kingston claimed made him appear unkempt. Cal thought it lent him a vaguely piratical look. “You don’t like it?”
There was no hiding the dark circles under his eyes and a new gauntness to his cheeks, though. These past few weeks had held little sleep and even less appetite.
A frown knit her brows together. “I’m not talking about the beard. You really look awful. Are you sick? Is that why the sudden change of heart about Miss Cuthbert? If you’ve come all this way to drop dead on my floor, I will pitch your corpse off the nearest cliff. Don’t think I won’t.”
Cal’s laugh grated roughly as if rusty from disuse. “Aw, Phee, you care.” He covered his heart and winked.
She rolled her eyes, but a quirk at the corner of her mouth made him hope. “Why are you here, Calvin?”
